


Indiana Filth

by Lapsed_Scholar



Category: The X-Files
Genre: A lot of suggestiveness, Casefile (in a meager sort of way), Established Relationship, F/M, Hiking, Humor, Indiana, Innuendo, Mud, atths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 17:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16163201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapsed_Scholar/pseuds/Lapsed_Scholar
Summary: And thus was she consigned to hiking in Indiana in March. She supposes that there are some days when hiking in Indiana in March might actually be pleasant.Today, though, is not that day.





	Indiana Filth

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the 50 States challenge inspired by @softnow and curated by @viceversa. I had a lot of fun! If either of you want to post this over on Tumblr (or link to it) so that you've got everything in one place, feel free. :)

He’ll admit that maybe this particular excursion didn’t start off auspiciously. But that wasn’t his fault; he did make a genuine effort to entice her interest with banter over an introductory slideshow.

“What does the great state of Indiana put you in mind of, Scully?”

“Reggie Miller.”

Well OK then. Scully was clearly not in good humor. Noted. Her bad mood was not his fault either—at least not yet—as this was the first he’d seen of her since they left the office the evening before. He likes to think that if he had seen her a little earlier that morning, he would’ve been able to find some creative method or other (or combination thereof; he’s got ideas) to boost her mood, and all the ensuing unpleasantness could have been avoided.

Much more harmonious working conditions that way. Increased efficiency. It’s only responsible, really. He should present the evidence to Scully.

Anyway, given her mood before he had even laid out the case to her, he supposes that it was more or less inevitable that she would grow increasingly grouchy. She very rarely enjoys cases like this one: Missing teenagers, mysterious clues, and a nearby, secluded location with enough history to make hauntings or other associated phenomena a plausible explanation.

(Yes, he and Scully have vastly different understandings of the word “plausible.” He had realized and accepted this fact about three minutes after first meeting her.)

The thing was, though, there were still the missing kids to contend with. Whether or not Scully thought it was a ridiculous waste of time. Four kids from Terre Haute who all went to the same high school had mysteriously disappeared within a few days of each other. And she couldn’t just dismiss that away, although she did try.

“Mulder, they’re probably just off playing hooky—smoking pot or having sex or... or doing whatever it is that teenagers do when they want to hide from their parents.”

“So your opening theory is a drug-fueled orgy? Believe me, I do like where your mind’s going, Scully—and I look forward to revisiting the topic of your high school years later.”

Yeah, OK. Maybe that hadn’t been the smartest quip for him to make when her patience had started out thin.

In the end, though, she really couldn’t deny that the facts of the case were suggestive of something deeper. None of those kids knew each other particularly well. Their parents certainly didn’t think that they were close enough to all run off together to... do whatever. The local police hadn’t been able to find them, either, and the leads had seemed to just dry up.

There was a lead that stood out to him, though. One of the kids had recently been on a biology field trip to a state park about forty-five minutes away. For science classes, Turkey Run State Park boasted old growth hardwood forest and sandstone cliffs carved out by glacial runoff. More germane to his purposes were the nineteenth-century European settlement history and the far longer occupation of the land by the Wea tribe.

In other words, relatively secluded wilderness with a long history of human habitation. Exactly the type of setting suggestive of paranormal activity.

* * *

Turkey Run State Park.

Turkey run. Wild goose chase. Sundry other fowl aerobics.

Dana Scully trails after Fox Mulder with irritated resignation. Hiking has never been her favored activity, and Mulder’s hikes usually involve considerably more peril—or at least discomfort—than normal hikes.

“It’ll be a nice trip to the forest,” his bright-eyed, youthful self had pronounced during the first year of their partnership. He was very wrong about that (being ensnared by predatory, prehistoric arthropods could be safely categorized as distinctly Not Nice), but had somehow still managed to be endearing.

Very little has changed, only she isn’t particularly enamored of him in this moment.

As she trudges along, she works up some sort of sarcastic barb out of turkeys, wild geese, and foxes. Not that she'll end up using it. She has a longstanding promise with herself not to weaponize the various vulnerabilities Mulder has entrusted to her. She steadfastly honors that promise, and thus she only teases him about his name when she’s being gentle and affectionate and isn’t actually cross with him.

Right now, she _is_ actually cross with him. So, even though she’ll keep it to herself, coming up with something suitably cutting is proving to be deeply satisfying.

After their arrival in Indianapolis, they had begun, at her vehement insistence (and despite Mulder’s visible impatience), in Terre Haute. They dutifully talked to the local police force, parents, teachers, and peers before she would permit him to take them up to the park. Alas, combing through this more conventional evidence had not turned up anything that the local authorities had not, so they were left to follow Mulder’s harebrained theory after all.

And thus was she consigned to hiking in Indiana in March. She supposes that there are some days when hiking in Indiana in March might actually be pleasant. Probably better for people who actually do like hiking, but she can understand from a theoretical perspective: the hardwood forest with its oaks and sycamores and maples, the rugged landscape overlooking the creek. She can see how it could have its appeal.

Today, though, is not that day, although it’s considerably better than yesterday. Yesterday featured gray clouds, temperatures near freezing, and a cold, misty sleet. Today is warmer, at least, breaking into the fifties, but the sky is still overcast, and yesterday’s precipitation has apparently combined with an overall damp March to create very muddy hiking conditions.

And the trail they’re on right now? It’s not amenable to being traversed in muddy hiking conditions. It might not be amenable to being traversed at all, come to think of it. It’s not like they weren’t warned. The map said “very rugged,” but Mulder had impatiently waved off her caution, deeming this trail the most efficient path back to the park entrance.

“It’s Indiana; how rugged can it possibly be?”

She’s not entirely sure how one measures ruggedness on an objective scale, but the answer to Mulder’s question is “probably excessively rugged for two FBI Agents from DC who don’t do a lot of hiking.” They both keep themselves in good shape, of course. But this particular path involves climbing through rocky, rough terrain, and scaling wooden ladders. Add the mud and the outcome of this stupid case, and it’s really no wonder that she’s amusing herself by thinking up creative ways to tell him off.

Oh yes—they did solve the case. And he was wrong. Sort of. Maybe. But, then again, she was sort of wrong too. Or maybe they were both right. It was a bit hard to tell.

They had found the youths in the woods of the park, just as Mulder had suspected. But there was nothing remotely paranormal about it, and after talking to the kids in question, even Mulder was forced to admit that was true. (She had been obliged to give him a sharp nudge when he drifted too close to leading questions, but he had still not managed to extract anything from them worth an X-File.)

After one of them had taken a class trip to the park, he had come up with the bright idea to use it as a place to escape parental and educational scrutiny, to get a taste of freedom. He had communicated the idea to certain of his peers (new friends, apparently, although parents are not always the first to know the latest happenings in teenage social circles), and they had concocted the brilliant idea to gradually drift away from their obligations and set up a camp outside the regular camping grounds. Where they had remained undiscovered until two FBI agents had found them, questioned them, lectured them, and then sent them home.

Back to the warmth of central heating and more protection from the drizzle than a canvas tent. And back to wrathful parents, annoyed local law enforcement, and punitive school authorities. Still, it wasn’t all bad for the kids. And, even though she’s aggravated with Mulder and annoyed at this entire case, she still can’t quite dismiss the fact that they _had_ found some missing kids and returned them to their families. Before their ill-considered camping venture got anyone sick from exposure or otherwise injured.

Exposure, she thinks glumly, with a small shiver, burrowing her hands more firmly into her jacket pockets. She did dress for the weather and the terrain (or, at least, what she had thought the terrain likely to be; there is no preparing for this mud): hiking boots, jeans, a sweater, and a jacket. Mulder, who has now slowed his pace to walk beside her in a sort of tentative, companionable contrition, is dressed similarly, only with a turtleneck beneath the sweater in lieu of a jacket.

They walk along like this for awhile, eventually making their muddy way along a steep, uneven overlook. _Dammit, Mulder,_ she thinks tiredly, _“very rugged” means “very rugged.”_ A lot unfolds in the next minute, and it all happens very quickly. As she continues in her peevish ruminations, she’s distracted enough to lose her footing. She’s too close to the edge of the trail, which boasts a precipitous, rough drop down to the gulch. Before she can consciously register what’s happening, before the sudden change in proprioception has finished activating her sympathoadrenal system, Mulder has reached out to secure her by the arm. But that reflexive movement upsets his own balance, the mud beneath them is slick, and they both slide down the bank.

As soon as her synapses finish processing what’s happened, she breathes through the jolt of adrenaline and lifts her head from his chest (where she’s landed) to try to assess their current condition. They’ve skidded partway down, but not too far. Maybe about ten feet. He’s on his back, and she’s entirely on top of him, their hips together. The posture might once have been suggestive in a juvenile sort of way before she had more frequent (and far more pleasant) occasion to experience the sensation.

Mulder is frowning and wincing, moving his head and groaning a little. He’s obviously conscious and responsive, then. Probably winded. She gingerly moves herself off of his rib cage to kneel in the mud beside him, eyes him clinically. He looks to be mostly in order, and apart from the adrenaline rush, she is, herself, largely unaffected.

When she hears the air rushing into his lungs again, she gives him a moment to just breathe before asking, “Mulder. Are you OK? Did you hit your head?”

He shakes his head, still on his back on the ground. “No... Just... got the air... knocked outta me. Be OK... just a second.” She’s relieved that he doesn’t seem to be seriously hurt. They’ve both had enough unpleasant experience with diaphragm spasms to diagnose them accurately.

And, presently, he sits up. Very muddy and mussed, but he gives her a half-smile. “Geez, Scully. Next time you wanna take up cliff diving, warn me first.”

And this, she supposes, is the reality of her relationship with Fox Mulder. No matter what else is going on in the complicated fabric of their lives, he will never, ever let her fall.

* * *

They make it out of the woods without further incident, although he’s starting to get gradually chillier. His outfit had been sufficient for hiking today, but he hadn’t intended to roll in the cold, wet mud when he got dressed this morning. His pants are uncomfortable and stiff, and both his shirt and sweater are thoroughly mud-encrusted. And there’s probably going to be some bruising on his back that is starting to feel tender against the scratchy, mud-saturated fabric.

When they make the car, he’s bracing himself for an unpleasant forty-five minute drive back to Terre Haute while trying to not let his back touch the seat, but Scully beats him to the driver’s side. She casts an evaluating eye over him, and he feels strangely small beside her. Even though he practically towers over her in her flat hiking boots, and even though it’s arguably her fault that he’s in this condition in the first place.

Her expression softens, however, and she tilts her head. There’s a streak of mud across her cheek that he doesn’t brush with his thumb. “Let’s walk over to the Inn. I want to get a better look at you, and the trip back will be far more comfortable if we can visit a laundry facility first.”

“You can look at me anywhere you want, Scully,” he offers, but he’s honestly relieved by her suggestion and follows her to the Inn without attempting further commentary.

He doesn’t pay a lot of attention as she checks them in, simply trails behind her, preoccupied with other thoughts. About the case and local lore and... OK, some of the thoughts are about how good her ass looks in those jeans and half-formed plans to take cases which require casual dress more often.

He’s preoccupied enough that he nearly runs into her when she stops before a room door. He quickly looks up in the direction of her face and prepares to be handed his own key, or maybe ushered into this room while she continues down the hall, but she simply opens the door, proceeds a short way inside, and beckons him to follow.

“Stay near the door, Mulder, so you don’t track mud through the room,” she directs, disappearing deeper into the room—toward the direction of the bathroom, if he had to guess.

He doesn’t quite know what to do, so he follows her instructions: shuts the door behind him and stays at the threshold. Exactly like she told him to. He can be biddable on occasion.

But that doesn’t mean he’ll be quiet. “Hey, Scully? We shacking up together?”

She returns with a damp towel from the bathroom and eyes him. “You’re not afraid of sharing a room with me, are you?”

Well, she’s just going to have to humor his disbelief for a moment because the No Fraternization On The Job directive stands by her authority, not his.

“Ah, so I take it this is a personal expenditure for one of us?”

“No,” she explains patiently, as if he did hit his head in their tumble, after all. “We need this room because of an incident on the job. Therefore, this is a work expense.”

He opens his mouth and then closes it. She apparently booked one room for both of them and charged it to the FBI. They can always try the “The whole inn was booked except for this one room” excuse, but it’s unlikely to withstand any degree of scrutiny. This is not exactly high tourist season, after all.

“The Bureau,” she decrees, with a roll of her clear blue eyes, “can suck it.”

 _Well all right then, Scully_. She’s clearly still in a mood, but at least their dive off the side of the trail has removed him as the principal target of her ire. Bending the rules is usually his forte, not hers, but sometimes when she gets into a mood like this one, she plows ahead and damn both the rules and the consequences. He never quite knows what to do in these contingencies. He’ll probably just follow her to see where she’s headed. (This decision has in the past culminated with him secured to the bedframe, but it’s not like he’s yet _regretted_ following her lead.)

* * *

After determining that neither of them was seriously hurt, Scully’s priorities had been to get out of the woods and then to find a way to get them both cleaned up. She was fairly muddy herself, but Mulder had fared worse than she had—his entire back was covered, from his shoulders down to his ankles, and she could tell as they walked that he was growing more and more uncomfortable, though he didn’t say anything.

Bearing all of this in mind, when they finally made their way out of the woods, she deemed it wise to stop at the Inn, rather than trying to drive back to Terre Haute in this state, and she could tell that Mulder was relieved by the suggestion when he followed her lead with minimal snark.

She isn’t quite sure what possessed her to take one room and charge it to the FBI. Maybe it’s because she’s sure that an auditor somewhere is going to pick apart the expenses for this entire case (even though they _did_  successfully close it). And she’s sure someone somewhere will complain that they stopped here at all. So if they’re going to get reamed over wasting money on rooms, that’s fine. They really only do need the one.

She’s tired of contrivances and bureaucracy. The Bureau can suck it.

Mulder is looking at her a touch warily, as though he’s trying to figure her out. But she did, in fact, start this with pure intentions. Mostly pure intentions, anyway.

When he just keeps looking at her, she prompts him. “Give me your clothes, Mulder.” (Which instructions may, in fact, belie her pure intentions. But those clothes need to be washed, and she does want to check him for injury).

He squirms a little. “But you didn’t even buy me dinner,” he mutters, though even as he’s complaining he moves to do as he’s told, pulling his shirt and sweater up and off with little pretense before bending to untie his bootlaces. Mulder has never been particularly shy about either his body or his state of dress. With good reason, really. Mulder is dear to her for a number of very deep and existential reasons. But he is also undeniably pleasant to look at. And now that he is unequivocally hers to look at, she can enjoy doing it more openly and with far less guilt.

There’s a challenging glint in his eye; he holds her gaze as he straightens, undoes his belt, and removes his jeans. He offers her the haphazard bundle of his muddy clothes while standing before her in his underwear, clarifies with a slight dip of his chin, “Those didn’t get too filthy. Yet, anyway.”

She gestures with her head for him to put the clothes on the floor near the threshold. (She's privately chagrined and... maybe intrigued? to discover that she’s starting to feel like she’s in a tense standoff with a suspect.) “Turn around.”

He laughs a little. “Uh, Scully, not that I’m saying _no_ , but that sort of thing usually involves more pre-planning and a different sort of equipment than you habitually take out in the field.” But he does turn so that he’s facing the door.

She rolls her eyes at the back of his head. “Shut up, Mulder.” She appraises his back. A layer of mud where his shirt hiked up. Minor scrapes and some second degree bruising. She reaches out to brush the skin gently, watches in fascination at the rippling of his musculature as he tenses, then relaxes, observes the slight piloerection that follows her fingers. He’s otherwise still and silent.

She uses the towel she had dampened and brought from the bathroom to carefully wipe at the worst of the mud. She had ensured that it was warm, but he still gasps and startles before relaxing again and making an unidentifiable noise in the back of his throat. She thinks it likely indicates approval, though she’s careful not to press too hard and abrade the already-sensitive skin with the roughness of the towel.

She works at the mud carefully, following the contours of his back. Observes the quickening of his breathing. _Trapezius, latissimus dorsi, external obliques_. She reaches the iliac crest, drops the towel, and follows the iliac wing around from posterior to anterior with her fingertips. Traces the elastic on his waistband before dipping beneath.

His head thunks forward to hit the door, and this time his moan is a noise that she knows very well.

* * *

_A considerable number of missing minutes later..._

They do end up in the bed (via a highly irregular and circuitous route). He’d like to stay snuggled there together a little longer—he’s honestly drowsy after a day in the outdoor air, a hard fall, and harder... well. He makes a half-hearted grab at her waist when she untangles herself, but she gets away with a little giggle that she’ll deny with a straight face if he brings it up later. (Denying things with a straight face is a specialty of hers that he’s somehow grown to love even as it irritates him.)

He wonders idly if he has enough cash in his wallet to leave the housekeeping staff a decent tip. He feels like he should, if for no other reason than there’s mud in... a considerable number of places. The shower probably should have been an earlier stop on their tour of the room. He’ll keep that in mind for possible encores.

Scully reappears in his line of sight dressed back in her dirty, rumpled hiking clothes. She’s evidently made some effort to look presentable, but the most that can be said for her outfit is that it’s in better shape than his. The rest of her looks... _fucked_ is probably the accurate term, if a little crude and maybe disrespectful. Her hair is mussed, her face is flushed, her lips are swollen, her eyes are bright. And there’s also half a circular bruise peeking out above the neckline of her sweater where he got carried away with his mouth. _Whoops_ , he thinks. But he also thinks, _Mine_ , with a great deal of self-satisfaction.

There’s a teasing affection in her eyes as she approaches the bed and bends down to stay in his line of sight. “I’m going to go take your clothes to the laundry room. And then when they’re done, you can return the favor.”

He reaches up and brushes back some of her flyaway hair. “You’re gonna go into the common areas looking like that, Scully? You look like...”

“I have a naked man in my bed, and I’ve taken his clothes away with me?”

Well, yes. Exactly like that.

**Author's Note:**

> Turkey Run State Park is an actual place, roughly as described. If memory serves, however, the Inn doesn't have a laundry room. The things we do for fiction.


End file.
